


The Seasonal Kind

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [25]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 13:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14695071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “What should be happening,” Sebastian said, “is that I should be in bed.”





	The Seasonal Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: curling up on the sofa together, feet tucked under thighs and arms around shoulders, watch the kind of crap tv that only airs at 3am because they don’t want to untangle themselves to go to bed. Prompt from this [generator.](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator)

“What should be happening,” Sebastian said, “is that I should be in bed.”

Chris sighed, a full-on production that somehow resulted in his head resting in the center of Sebastian’s chest. “‘K. Go on then,” he said. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

That Chris went jello when he was tired was no newsflash; as soon as they called cut, sometimes, he went from Captain America to worn-out rubber band, snapping back towards the nearest soft surface, his eyes like sleepy stones.

But the cuddly puppy routine? The crawl on Seb’s sofa and stretch out like a starfish, Seb’s presence and need for a seat, for some space, for some actual sanity be damned? This was new.

Somehow, watching one movie after dinner had turned into two--“It’s called a sequel for a reason, Seb. It’s the second part of the story, come on”--and now it was the middle of the night, practically, creeping towards two AM, and Chris was practically curled up in Seb’s lap. It was weird and not especially great for Seb’s sanity, thanks, but it was cold outside, snowing, and they hadn’t seen each other in months and there was a reason they’d decided to order takeout instead of making an effort and so Seb was stuck with it, the strangely comfortable feeling of having Chris Evans, broad shoulders and long legs and core like a fucking furnace, snuggled up with him on a couch that was too small to begin with and now felt like a postage stamp. A really warm, comfortable stamp that Seb had no particular desire to ever get off of.

Except it was late and they weren’t like this. This wasn’t them. They didn’t touch like this, full-on body contact, like Chris was chocolate and Seb was caramel. They didn’t linger in each other’s spaces, not in trailers or hotel rooms or rental places, ever. They were friends, but the seasonal kind, like the ones you make at summer camp: great when they’re there, when you’re all stuck together in the proverbial woods, but not top of mind when you go back to your life. They don’t text (ugh) or email (worse). They don’t send each other gifs on Twitter. They’ve never talked about it, never drawn lines in the sand or around their own lives, never warded off what their friendship’s supposed to look like. It’s just evolved, like these things do, without discussion or consideration or too much conscious thought except fuck that, it has, because Seb is hyper conscious of Chris, always has been, except when the cameras are rolling. When the slate snaps, he can let go of the confusion in his head around Chris, the storm of color and want, the feelings that he’s not interested in naming but refuse to retreat, to leave him the fuck alone.

There are things he wants to say when they’re not in costume, when they’re not  reading somebody else’s lines, and he’s taken a sledgehammer to them a hundred times, tried to smash them with his bare hands, but the words, they won’t go away, and try as he might, he’s never been able to shake the stutter his heart gives, damned bloody motor, when he sees Chris for the first time after ages and tonight had been no different except in all the ways that it was because Chris’s never asked to come over before, to visit Sebastian in his actual apartment, not some beige studio rental. He’d called the day before, said he was in town, asked casual if Seb wanted to hang; promised to bring a movie called _Hot Shots!_ that he and Mackie quote constantly, that Seb’s never seen. Didn’t mention that it had a sequel. Didn’t say he wanted takeout. Didn’t say he’d show up in old jeans that were more cotton than denim, worn soft and faded and damp at the cuffs from the slush and new snow. Didn’t say that he’d smell so damn good, that the henley he’d have on would be the same color as his eyes when he was angry, a blue sky at midnight. And he sure as hell didn’t say that he would lean into Sebastian, that he’d sit beside him on the fluffy sink of the couch and ooze into him, tangle their legs and their arms and then tumble, warm and needy, into Sebastian’s chest, the scratch of his beard through Seb’s t-shirt almost as incendiary as his hand casual on Sebastian’s thigh. No, Chris hadn’t mentioned any of that, it’d just happened, and now Seb was stuck Chris’s skin a stroke away, a slide of his palm under Chris’s blue hem and maybe it was the Jack they’d finished off with the pizza or the lateness of the hour or the white whisper outside of the snow but he had this strange, certain feeling that if he reached out, if he touched, Chris wouldn’t run away or freak out or something. No, he was all at once sure: Chris would let him.


End file.
